Chapter Nineteen

Nick slept fitfully and awoke early—too early. Even after he was showered and dressed, it was only a few minutes before six. Sam’s hurt voice kept echoing in his head. How could anyone think she was a killer? He’d tried to get her to open up, to talk to him, but she wouldn’t.

Now he felt like crap. He should have known she would be upset. Maybe he should have kept it from her until he had something more substantial. But he didn’t want to lie to her. He only wished he could get her to lean on him a little more. She needed to be alone, she’d told him. She couldn’t depend on anyone. She would handle this herself. It would only hurt his career if he took her side. Damn it, he wanted to take her side. He wanted to be with her, to help her. But she’d refused.

It wasn’t even such a big deal yet, but to Sam the job and her reputation meant everything. Shit like that happened all the time at the station. Lots of cops had been blamed at one time or another for becoming too involved in a case—getting in too deep, crossing the line. But being accused of the actual crime—that was almost unheard of. Nick didn’t think it would stick.

But he couldn’t get angry with her. She had the right to handle it however she wanted. Worrying about their relationship shouldn’t be his focus right now. He rubbed his eyes. Their relationship—there was no relationship. When was he going to figure it out? Christ, he was like a damn teenager around her, and she wanted him for running prints, playing softball with Rob, and talking music with Derek. That was it. He was a colleague, maybe a friend, but certainly nothing more. He needed to back off and get a life, find someone who wanted more. And that someone was not going to be Sam Chase.

Looking around his apartment, he realized he should’ve gone for a run. He could have used something to burn off steam. And right now he had enough steam for a marathon.

Instead, he got in his car and headed toward his sister’s house. She lived in a town of young urban professionals. Gina and Mike had been one of the first black couples in Moraga almost thirty years before. The house was colonial style, not huge but tidy, with a deep grass yard and a brick walkway. Two large oak trees stood at opposite ends of the front yard like pillars holding up an invisible shelter above the house. The only person in his family who would be up at this hour lived with his sister. And right now he needed to see his mother.

He parked at the curb and walked to the side of the house, passing the white gate into his mother’s yard. Ever since he could remember, his mother could sense when one of her children was nearby. She had a nose for it. With Nick, she’d sniff quickly and say, “You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” Or “you’re hungry.”

He wasn’t sure how that smelled, but she was always right. When he needed to talk to her, he would just stand nearby and her nose would lead her to him.

Now, he passed over the plush lawn and looked into her garden. She’d sectioned it into three parts. The largest was the vegetable garden, the middle patch directly beneath the kitchen window. She grew tomatoes, carrots, peas, eggplant, and squash. On the far side of it, she had a small rose garden. All peach and yellow roses, her favorites. And the near side had herbs and his father’s geranium.

It had been a small, rather sickly red geranium that his father had given his mother a few months before he died. She had nurtured and potted and repotted that plant at every turn. Every winter she’d taken careful cuttings, rooting them in jelly glasses on the windowsill. Some of them made it and some didn’t, but every spring she had new little geranium plants that had sprung from the old. Nursing had not only been her profession, it was also the way she approached life.

Early morning was her hour for gardening. Sometimes she started before it was even light enough to see well. In the summer, it was the most comfortable hour to be outside—before the temperature rose to ninety-five or higher.

“You’re up early.”

He looked up at his mother, coming out the back door. She wore a red gingham shirt with the sleeves turned up and big jeans, rolled at the bottom. On her head was a wide-brimmed straw hat, though the sun wasn’t anywhere in sight yet. Her gardening gloves were in one hand, hot tea in the other.

“Well?”

He smiled. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Last time you couldn’t sleep, you and Sheila were breaking up. Your heart cracked again, eh?”

He shook his head. “My heart’s fine.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” his mother scolded. She passed him and looked over her vegetable garden as though grading its performance. “She’s got you that good, she’s probably worth it.”

“Who are you talking about?”

She pulled her hat off and frowned, shaking her head. “Whoever you’re over here to talk about. I can tell by that forlorn look in your eyes that this isn’t about a case. You’re never over here at this hour over a case. So I know what it’s about. She’s somebody, whoever she is. And special, I’m gathering. So I don’t know why you’re here with your old mom instead of being with her at this hour.”

He turned and paced a few steps, then came back. “It’s case-related too. Things have gotten complicated.”

She watched him. “You’re crushing my grass with that pacing. Go get my extra gloves in the shed and we’ll work some of that energy off.”

“I’m in clean pants, Mom.”

She waved him on. “There are some kneepads in there too if you’re afraid of a little dirt.”

Nick saddled up in kneepads and gloves and entered his mother’s garden.

“Anything looks like this,” she said, waving a yellowish-green stem with clover-like leaves. “Out. And dig a little to get the bulbs underneath. Bloodsuckers, these oxalis.”

Nick turned his attention to pulling weeds, and they worked in silence for a few minutes.

His mother picked at the weeds with a vengeance. “She got a name?”

“Sam. Sam Chase.”

“Hard name for a lady.”

“She’s a hard lady.”

“White?”

He nodded.

His mother stopped and smiled.

“What’s so funny?”

She pushed her hat up with the back of her gloved hand. “I always thought you needed someone tougher.”

He continued to pull weeds. “I’m afraid she may be too tough.”

“She doesn’t want anything to do with you?”

“She doesn’t seem to want anything to do with anyone. But especially not me.”

“How’s she involved in this case?”

“The victim was her case. Some jerks are even saying she’s a suspect.”

“You think she’s capable of killing?”

He met his mother’s gaze. “No.” He pulled out two more clumps of oxalis. “Someone’s framing her.”

“Humph,” his mother said.

They were quiet for a minute while Nick tried to think about who could possibly have gathered enough evidence to make it look like Sam was guilty of anything. He would have liked to wring the prick’s neck.

“You going to think out loud or do I need to start guessing?”

Nick looked at his mother. “I’m frustrated is all. No answers, and she doesn’t let me in. Someone’s messing with her stuff at work, leaving her strange messages. I’ve only seen one, but I think there have been more. She needs help, but she won’t ask. Last night I told her what I’d heard about the accusations against her.” He cringed at the memory of Sam’s anger. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told her. You know, the messenger and all that.”

“No, you were right to tell her. She needed to know, even if it was painful. And if it had come out later from somewhere else, it would have been worse.”

He thought about his mother’s words.

His mother worked quietly and Nick knew she was considering this information, preparing her diagnosis and treatment.

“When I met your father,” his mother began, “I’d been through a lot. I wasn’t open to meeting a man, and especially not a white man. I thought I had enough trouble living as I was, without dealing with a mixed relationship.” She smiled. “I didn’t realize that every relationship between a man and a woman is mixed. Just the nature of the beast.”

That was certainly true from his experience.

“I didn’t know how to open up. No one ever taught me.” She took her glove off and squeezed his hand. “No one until your father. I never would’ve asked for help—not from anyone.” She pointed to the geranium. “That’s what that plant reminds me of. He gave it to me after he had that first heart attack. He told me it was to remind me that love grows and ours was still growing.”

Nick stared at the geranium. All these years, he’d had no idea the plant held so much significance.

“You’ve got to teach her.”

“I don’t know how—”

She waved her hand. “Shh. ’Course you do. Just give her space, but be there if she needs you. She’ll come when she’s ready.” She blinked hard. “Now get. I got work to do.”

Nick stood up and pulled the gloves and kneepads off, trying to digest what his mother had told him. How could he teach Sam Chase to ask for his help?

“You come by next week for dinner—both of you.”

Nick leaned down and pulled his mother’s hat off, kissing the top of her head. “You’re the best, Mom.”

“Good thing. I’m the only mom you’ve got.”

Nick watched her work for a minute in silence and then headed for the gate. He wished he could bottle some of her wisdom and drink it. He knew she doled it out in exactly the right portions to provide him with whatever he needed at the moment. He thought about giving Sam her space. He needed to cool off and let her come to him. He could do that. He smiled at his mother. As he walked to his car, he thanked his dad again for finding her.

Maybe he could catch dinner at his sister’s. He glanced at his watch, amazed to see it was half past ten. “Christ,” he muttered, making a U-turn and turning his car toward home. He’d spent the day cruising past the crime scene and around the Walters’ neighborhood and then to Alf’s diner to try to locate Dougie.

Not a single thing in his whole day had gone right. He hadn’t even eaten since the stale piece of pie he’d ordered at Alf’s almost six hours earlier. He wondered what was in his fridge and realized he didn’t even care.

He just wanted to go home and straddle his bass—let himself unwind. And if Mrs. Jacobs upstairs wanted to make a stink, let her call the damn cops. It would give them all something to laugh about at the station. And he could use a laugh.

He was heading off the freeway by his house at quarter to eleven when his cell phone rang.

“Thomas,” he answered.

“It’s Cintrello.”

“What’s up?”

“I need you in Martinez—at Estudillo and Marina Vista by the railroad tracks.”

“I’m off.”

“Yeah, well, it was my day off, too. Not any fucking more.”

Nick turned his car into a driveway, then pulled out in the opposite direction. “What’ve you got?”

“Another one.”

“Another one?” he repeated. Another Sandi Walters?

“Thought we had this all tied up with a goddamn bow with Lugino. Not anymore. Whole thing just blew apart. And the undersheriff is all over my ass.”

“You want me to pick up Lugino?”

“No need. He’s here. Hasn’t left yet. Was supposed to be gone already, but his bail fell through on possession of Mary Jane. I think he needed twenty-five bucks or some damn thing. Couldn’t raise it. Lucky bastard. No chance this was his work.”

Nick tightened his grip on the phone. “Same M.O. ?”

“Pretty damn close. You’d better check it out. And while you’re at it, give your friend Chase a call. She have an alibi?”

“What does that mean?”

The captain didn’t answer his question. “Corona insists she be on the scene, but I don’t like it. And it’s my jurisdiction, so she doesn’t touch anything and she doesn’t go anywhere on that scene without someone watching her.”

“Captain, Chase is not involved in these crimes.”

“Like hell she’s not. Victim’s another one of her cases.”

“Fine, but she’s not guilty of anything.”

“We’ll see, but it’s her victim, her M.O. Looks like the same guy. From what I hear, the fucker thinks he’s clever. Go see for yourself.” The captain cursed and hung up.

Another victim. And the killer wasn’t Lugino. Nick hammered his open hand on the steering wheel. “Damn.”